Bought the freedom of a sing-song girl; and all the while you knew you'd have to tote the girl back. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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